Instead, she came face-to-face with a brick wall that rose before her a few feet away—the back of the stables. So she opened the door a bit more and leaned slightly forward. She still saw nothing. Whoever was making that sound of exertion was hidden from view. It came again, and then once more. Frowning, Gabriella glanced back over her shoulder to ensure that no one had seen her. She then stepped all the way through the doorway and into a narrow alleyway that ran between the garden wall and the Warwick stables. Closing the door behind her, she inhaled sharply. A knot had formed in her belly, and her heart was leaping so rapidly against her chest that it ached.
Swallowing, she started forward with hesitant steps in the direction of the courtyard—a short distance of less than ten yards that seemed terribly far in the nervous state she was currently in. Another grunt hit her ears, this one louder than the previous ones. Oomph! Her pace quickened, and she finally reached the end of the stables.
Easing her head forward, she peered around the sharp corner, and almost expired from shock.
There, hunched over in the middle of the courtyard was Huntley, his legs firmly planted in a wide stance and his knees slightly bent for ease of movement. Arms raised with fisted hands, he bobbed slightly on the balls of his feet. Heat washed over Gabriella, flushing her skin as she took in the scene, her mouth going dry at the stark realization that he wasn’t wearing any clothes, besides a pair of scandalously tight breeches.
She’d never seen a man’s bare chest before, and could not help but stare at the rippling muscles that were drawn tight, like the grooves of a washboard, across his abdomen. Everything about him screamed masculine strength, from the bunching and flexing of his toned biceps to the powerful punches he threw at the canvas bag that was strung up before him.
Fleetingly, Gabriella wondered if Fielding might look like that as well beneath his starched shirts and crisp jackets. No, she decided, dismissing the thought. Nobody else could possibly look like this—as though he were capable of felling a dozen men with his bare hands. And the way he moved . . . his agility was nothing short of impressive.
With her blood simmering in her veins, Gabriella flattened her hand against the stable wall, steadying herself. She ought to look away and return to the safety of her garden before her weakened knees gave way beneath her. Yet she remained transfixed, her body refusing to listen to her brain—as though the two had become disconnected from the moment she’d laid eyes on him.
Another punch split the sack, and flour poured out onto the ground in a fine, powdery stream. Huntley stepped back and straightened himself. Hands on hips, he watched as the flour spilled through the tear in the canvas, his back heaving slightly with his heavy intakes of breath. Fielding did not look like this, Gabriella decided as her gaze slid over Huntley’s sharply defined contours. In fact, she very much doubted that anyone else of her acquaintance did, considering how much effort it probably took to develop such a mouthwatering physique.
Feeling the tips of her fingers tingle with a sudden desire to touch him, she stepped back hastily with the intention of fleeing at once. But then he turned, alerted no doubt by the scrape of her feet against the gravel. His eyes met hers, capturing her with intense awareness and freezing her in place. She’d intruded, spied on him, and she could not for the life of her get the necessary apology past her lips. Not when he was now striding toward her with swift precision, his sweat-dampened hair a chaotic mess that clung to his forehead and temples. Gabriella’s throat tightened. Dear God, she could see his nipples and his naval—a dusting of fine, dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches . . .
With flaming cheeks, she averted her gaze, fixing it on a spot somewhere to the right of his shoulder. And then he was before her, so close she could smell him—the pungent scent of his labor mingling with underlying hints of musk and sandalwood. It ought to make her stomach roil. Instead, it made her pulse beat faster.
“Lady Gabriella,” he said, his voice a gruff rumble that stirred her senses even more.
“F—forgive me,” she managed, in spite of her protesting tongue and a mind that felt far too muddled for any coherent thought. “I—”
“Were ye watchin’ me?” Gone was the perfect diction with which he’d spoken last night.
The unexpected question brought her eyes to his with surprising swiftness. Her chest squeezed as she faced the dark gleam of his gaze. There was curiosity there, but there was also something more—something hot and tempting, and very, very dangerous. “I heard a sound and came to investigate,” she told him honestly. “It was not my intention to pry.”
“So yes, ye were watchin’ me?” he asked again with a mischievous lilt. Annoyed by his insistence to increase her discomfort, she flattened her lips and tried to glare at him. “It was difficult not to when you were right there, for the entire world to see.”
“Hmm . . .” He nodded. “Even so, ye probably should have turned away. Or at least made yer—your presence known.”
He was right, of course. “Sorry.” And then, because she felt as though she ought to explain herself, she said, “I was surprised by what I saw and found it difficult to look away. I’ve never seen anyone box before.” She took a step back, adding distance, and then repeated, “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call this boxing.” His tone changed and he was speaking properly once more, with greater effort. “I was just doing some training—trying to keep fit.”
Shifting restlessly beneath his gaze, she fought the many responses that formed in answer to that comment, and said, “Most gentlemen would ride or duel with swords, and if they were to box, as I know many of them do at Gentleman Jackson’s, they would do so properly attired.”
He responded with a mischievous chuckle—a contradiction to his otherwise serious façade—which produced a pair of charming dimples, while his eyes maintained their wicked appeal. The combined effect was so potent that Gabriella felt herself caught in a net of desire so intense it became quite painful to breathe. He pierced her with his gaze. “As your father mentioned last night, I am not a gentleman.”
The harsh rebuke made her wince. “He did not say that.”
“He might as well have,” Huntley replied. His eyes hardened, burying the welcoming look he’d given her earlier. “I was judged and deemed unworthy of my title.”
“I tried to warn you.” She could no longer look at him directly. The shame of her father’s harsh dismissal of Huntley the previous evening, and Fielding’s blatant dislike of him, was too acute. “The aristocracy does not favor outsiders. Least of all when they come from questionable backgrounds.”
Huntley’s eyes darkened. “My background is far from questionable. I am the rightful heir!”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But you are too different—too common.” Oh dear. That was not the right word.
He responded with a gruff snort. “I should have known that my expensive clothes would make no difference. I should have listened to you and to Richardson, Humphreys and Pierson, but I was too bloody stubborn—too bloody intent on putting Fielding and his ilk in their damned places!” Gabriella’s eyes widened, but he did not apologize for the expletive. Instead, he just tempered his voice, before saying, “Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.” He expelled a breath. “Your kindness did not go unnoticed.”
“Think nothing of it,” she said with a lightness she did not feel. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”
He nodded once before saying, “I hope it doesn’t complicate things for you.” His features softened around the edges, and then something awful resembling pity seeped into his eyes.
It was more than she could bear. And yet, hearing the sincerity with which he spoke—as though he actually cared—she could not seem to fault him for it. So rather than the clipped retort that initially formed on the tip of her tongue, she spoke from her heart, saying simply, “So do I.” Deciding that it was time to leave, Gabriella straightened her spine and prepared to retreat. “I,” she began weakly.
It was at the same moment as he said, “My—”
